Above and Beyond
I actually watched Obama’s entire State of the Union address. I would like to think I was merely doing my duty as a citizen and as a political observer, but I’m beginning to worry that there is simply a streak of masochism that runs through me. After all, that’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back, and God knows I’m not getting any younger. If anything, just listening to and looking at His Arrogance has aged me considerably over the past five years.
I can’t even boast that I have cracked his code. A child of six could have figured out a long time ago that when he says “fees” and “revenue,” he means “taxes;” when he says “investing,” he means “spending;” and when he says “folks,” he means “suckers.” Furthermore, when he says “Let me make this perfectly clear,” he means “Abracadabra, now you see it, now you don’t.” And, finally, when he refers to “God,” he means himself.
If it weren’t for those masochistic tendencies, I would have long ago adopted Antonin Scalia’s approach to these annual telethons. For the past 16 years, he has avoided them, dismissing them as “childish spectacles.” Actually, the way that Joe Biden and Obama’s other puppets and stooges bounce up and down, applauding every platitude, cheering every cliché, I think Justice Scalia does a disservice to childish spectacles.
Frankly, I suspect the audience spends more time rehearsing their responses than Obama devotes to rehearsing his speech. After all, he not only has the use of a Teleprompter, but it’s only a slightly longer version of every other speech he gives. But it’s those senators and congressmen who have to know when the proper response is a furrowed brow, conveying their shared concern about rich people not paying their fair share; or polite applause, indicating they’re still awake; or whether it’s time to jump up and deliver the sort of ovation generally reserved for winners on “American Idol.”
One thing I know is that I wouldn’t want to be in Joe Biden’s shoes. That’s because, being on camera right behind Obama, he not only can’t afford to yawn or twitch around in his chair, but, like a musical conductor, he is expected to cue the other stiffs in the audience. If you’re Charles Schumer or Nancy Pelosi, you don’t want the TV camera catching you seated when Biden is up on his hind legs, waving his pom-poms.
Predictably, Obama went on at length about guns in the hands of law-abiding citizens, but nary a word about those in the hands of inner-city punks. On the other hand, I have to give him credit for at least suggesting that being a father entails more than knocking up a teenager. But, naturally, he gave less time to that all-important topic than he did to sending kudos to his wife and Mrs. Biden for something or other. Perhaps for putting up with the likes of him and Joe.
Some people actually take exception to my calling Obama arrogant. But what else would you call it when he decides that a $16.5 trillion dollar debt is of less concern than his golf score; when he ignored all the sensible recommendations of the Simpson-Bowles Commission, a commission, by the way, that he commissioned; and when — thus completing the trifecta — he apparently decided to override the counsel of his secretary of state, his secretary of defense, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Gen. Martin Dempsey, who all urged him to arm the Syrian insurgents. It wasn’t simply their intention to put an end to al-Assad’s carnage, but to diminish Iran’s and Russia’s influence in the Middle East.
This fool is not only a one-man band, but he’s tone-deaf.
Actually, the way that Obama and his merry gang of fiscal idiots are going, it’s quite possible that by 2016, we’ll look back on a $16.5 trillion national debt as the good old days.
Apparently the only person who has any influence on him is Valerie Jarrett, who, rumor has it, is up for the lead in “Rasputin, the Mad Monk! The Musical!”
Because for liberals, the indoctrination of young minds can never start early enough, Obama pleaded for more money with which to fund pre-school for four-year-olds. What makes this particularly cynical is that his own Department of Health and Human Resources determined in 2010 that by the time kids are in kindergarten, there’s no discernible difference between the tots who have been attending nursery school and those who haven’t. For liberals, it’s not about the kids learning their ABCs; it’s all about teaching them to chant “Mmm-mmm, Obama” in unison.
No liberal speech would be complete without tossing a bone to women. What amazes me about women, especially single left-wing women, is that they’re always talking about being empowered and independent. But they invariably vote for Big Government in the hope that Big Brother will take care of them, providing them with free birth control pills and free abortions, while at the same time pretending they’re fit for frontline warfare. The other big lie that liberals foster is that being a social worker is the equivalent of being a brain surgeon and should therefore entitle them to the exact same paycheck.
I am always bemused when Obama brings up the need to renew our infrastructure. Inasmuch as he claimed that was the main reason he needed the trillion-dollar Stimulus passed as soon as he took office, he either lied in 2009 or all those roads and bridges had a shorter shelf life than cottage cheese.
This brings us to Marco Rubio’s rebuttal. The mainstream media made a big deal out of the fact the senator had to pause to drink some water. Some people, it is said, can’t see the forest for the trees. Liberals, on the other hand, can’t see the forest or the trees. In Rubio’s case, they apparently decided he might be okay as a senator, but would never hack it as a camel.
The truth is Rubio gave a fine speech. The reason that a rebuttal invariably falls short has less to do with the person giving it than with the venue. The president gets to make his way slowly through throngs of kiss-ups before arriving at his beloved Teleprompter. He then stands before hundreds of partisans and a balcony filled with his wife, his friends and a bunch of carefully selected guests. He is then interrupted, on average, every 30 seconds by thunderous applause.
The fellow doing the rebutting, on the other hand, is alone in a sweat box. Now if I were head of the GOP, God forbid, I would place the guy in an auditorium and have him address a packed house. There’s no trick to a politician getting an ovation, but it can’t happen if there’s nobody around to clap.
Next, provide him with a podium so he can pause to drink some water, preferably during a huge round of applause and laughter. And while we’re at it, turn on the damn air conditioner so it doesn’t look like the poor guy is being grilled by the cops.
Speaking of being grilled by the cops, I was delighted to see cop-killer Christopher Dorner meet his maker in that blazing cabin. For one thing, I figure it served to prepare him for his final destination. For another, what the world doesn’t need is another multi-million dollar, multi-year, murder trial, which would only encourage a bunch of mugs to argue endlessly over insanity pleas and the pros and cons of capital punishment.
If I was entrusted with his burial rites, I would say that Chris Dorner lived a despicable life. But in the end, Crispy Dorner went out like a champ.
A note from the author . . .
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